A Rebel Heart
by LadyBlue13
Summary: When Sybil finds out that her husband Tom is wanted for arson and has been exiled from Ireland, her vows to love him "for better or for worse" are suddenly put to the test. How can Sybil ever trust him again, and how can Tom reconcile leaving Ireland behind forever? Starts at 3x04, as close to canon as possible.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **_I've always wondered how Sybil and Tom navigated the aftermath of their flight from Dublin and exile from Ireland in Season 3, and how it affected their relationship. I simply am not satisfied with the bedroom scene in 3x04, after Sybil learns Tom did have a role in the attacks on Drumgoole Castle, which is all we really get about how they are dealing with this huge change in their lives and their feelings about it. So I decided to write this multi-chapter fic, starting from episode 3x04 and spanning until the baby is born in 3x05. I will try to stay as close to canon as possible. _

_This chapter takes place before 3x04, with Sybil and Tom's escape from Ireland. Reviews are very much appreciated!_

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><p>As soon as the telephone rang, Sybil knew what had happened.<p>

Evening had long since fallen, and her husband had yet to arrive home. She had left his dinner - a poor attempt at potato leek soup - waiting for him on the table, in hopes that he would come sweeping in at any moment, hat low over his face and the _Evening Mail _tucked under his arm. As she leaped from the sofa to answer the telephone, she saw that the soup had congealed into a lumpy mass the consistency of drying cement. No matter now; he wouldn't be eating it anyway.

"Hello?" she answered breathlessly, running a hand over her swollen pregnant belly.

"Sybil, darling, you must immediately leave the flat."

"Tom!" In the reflection of the kitchen window, Sybil saw her face was as white as starched hospital sheets. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, but I don't have time to explain now," he replied hurriedly. Through the line, Sybil could make out the sounds of voices, and what sounded like clanking chains. "I'm at the ferry station," he continued. "Listen to me. You must do exactly what we discussed. Leave the flat and meet me at the port. We'll find somewhere to wait until the first ferry tomorrow morning."

Sybil turned, eyes searching out the clock that hung above the breakfast table. It was just before seven o'clock, when the last ferry to England would leave the dock.

"Are you in danger?"

Tom hesitated for a moment. "The police are searching for me."

Sybil took a deep breath. "Then you must get on the ferry tonight, Tom. Right now, before the last one leaves. You must go to my parents and wait for me there."

"No, I – I can't leave you here." She heard the clang of the dock master's bell in the background, alerting all stragglers to the ferry's imminent departure. "Sybil, I can't. If something were to happen to you or the baby –"

"Well, you wouldn't be much help if you were in prison, either!" Sybil hissed. "Go, Tom. I will be fine. I will meet you there as soon as I can."

"I can't –" he choked out.

"You can, and you must." Sybil closed her eyes, pressing the phone tightly to her mouth. "I love you."

Tom swore softly. "I love you, too. But please, please be safe."

"I will. Now go!"

The line went dead. Sybil slowly lowered the receiver back onto the cradle. A strange wave of calmness washed over her, like she was back at the hospital, helping in surgery. She knew what needed to be done. There was no time for going to pieces.

Tom was smart and resourceful; he would be all right. At least, that's what she told herself as she hurried to fetch her coat and purse from the bedroom. They both would be just fine. And once she made it to Downton and was reunited with her dear husband, she would tell him exactly what she thought about this mess he had gotten them into.

**xxx**

Tom sat hunched over on the polished wooden bench, hands on his knees and head bowed. He felt sick to his stomach, though he had waved away the grimy bucket the ferryman had tried to pass him at the sight of his stricken face. He barely even noticed the gentle rocking of the boat as it made its way toward Liverpool. All he could think about was Sybil, alone in Dublin and on the run from the police.

He fervently prayed that she had had time to leave the flat before the police arrived, looking for him. It was sure to be the first place they would search, and he wasn't sure about their policy on holding spouses of suspected criminals. The thought of Sybil in jail made his chest feel tight. He sunk further down into his seat, ignoring the stares of a family seated on the opposite bench. _Where was she now?_

He had abandoned his pregnant wife in a country on the brink of civil war, leaving her to fend for herself as he fled. In all his years, and all the stupid things he had done, this topped them all. If he had known it would end this way, he never would have gotten involved with the IRA's plans.

It had seemed like a simple thing, to burn down Drumgoole Castle. In comparison to the assassinations and mobbings that had become commonplace across Ireland, arson was a relatively minor act of protest. But the sight of the Drumgoole's children, sobbing and clutching at their mother's skirts as their house burnt, had filled Tom with shame. He could see the fear and sorrow in Lady Drumgoole's eyes as she tried to soothe her crying sons, tears dripping off the end of her patrician nose. While Tom had sworn he would never commit violence in the name of Irish independence, he realized in that moment that burning a family's home to the ground was much more violent that he had imagined.

In the chaos of the fire brigade's arrival, it had been easy to slip away in the night, leaving his co-conspirators behind. He could see from their expressions of glee, lit up by the dancing orange light of the flames, that none of the other men felt the same heavy sense of regret that sat like a stone in his chest. They would gladly go to prison for their crime, and see it as a badge of honour for their role in Ireland's fight. Perhaps he had once felt the same way, but now that it was real, Tom saw no honour in what they had done.

Running as fast as his legs could carry him, Tom had darted through alleys and back gardens, keeping to the shadows. He couldn't go home; there was no telling how quickly the police would catch the other men, or how long before one of them gave the police his name. He had to get away from Dublin or he would surely be found and arrested.

Tom and Sybil had a plan, concocted during whispered conversations as they lay huddled together at night. Sybil knew about his involvement with the Irish rebels, though he had always concealed the details for her own safety. They had imagined it might come to this one day, though none of their plans had accounted for a pregnant Sybil. Leaving her alone to follow after him had been difficult enough to contemplate before the baby; now, Tom felt physically ill at the prospect.

The dock master had been kind enough to let him use the telephone in the office without asking too many questions. Tom had been careful to keep his face concealed beneath his hat and the collar of his coat, though he knew he reeked of smoke. _Sybil, Sybil, Sybil. _Hearing her voice over the telephone, his resolve to leave her behind had crumbled. It was fortunate that his wife had more fortitude than he did – she had made him go, knowing that he must.

Escaping from Ireland had been much simpler than Tom had imagined. No one had tried to stop him as he bought his ticket to Liverpool and chose a seat near the back of the boat. As the ferry left the port, his eyes had filled with tears as the lights of Dublin disappeared behind them, fading into black. He could not look away from the skyline, knowing she was somewhere in the city.

_Please let her be safe_, he prayed, _let them both be safe._

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>_Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Chapter two coming soon. Please review, as I am really interested in knowing what you thought. Constructive criticism is also certainly welcome._


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:**_ This chapter takes place during episode 3x04. As always, please leave a review if you enjoyed it or have any suggestions for me. I really want to improve my writing, so I'm very open to hearing your thoughts!_

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><p>In the end, Sybil managed to find a room for the night at a seedy hotel near the ferry station. The concierge hadn't seemed surprised by her pregnant belly or her lack of luggage; Sybil imagined they must see all types in a place like this. He had even allowed her to use the telephone behind the desk, stepping away momentarily to give her privacy.<p>

It was mainly for Tom's sake that Sybil placed the call to Downton. There was no reason to worry her family now, not after the danger had passed. Tom, however, would be absolutely sick with fear. Once he arrived at Downton, he would be relieved to know that she had gotten out of the flat safely. There was also her father's reaction to consider. Lord Grantham would be furious when he found out that Tom had left her alone in Ireland. Perhaps if he knew she was all right, he might go a little easier on Tom, though Sybil doubted it would be much help.

Alone in her shabby room, Sybil eased herself onto the bed, still in her clothes. At eight months pregnant, movement was becoming awkward and difficult – not at all ideal for being on the run from the police. Her ankles were sore and her lower back ached. At home, Tom would often run her a hot bath in the evenings, or stay up to rub her shoulders until she fell into a restless sleep. Lying alone in the lumpy hotel bed, Sybil missed her husband so acutely that tears burned behind her eyelids, threatening escape.

_What has he done?_ she wondered, rolling awkwardly onto her side. Something illegal, there was no doubt; not if the police were after him. Sybil knew he was in touch with members of the IRA. There were nights when he had arrived home late, brow furrowed in deep thought. Other evenings, he stayed up long after she had gone to bed, sitting at the breakfast table and scribbling into his notebook. Perhaps she should have asked him for more detail, but in truth, she hadn't wanted to know.

Terrible things were happening in Dublin – murders, kidnappings, violent riots – and if Sybil was honest with herself, she hadn't asked Tom what he was up to because she was afraid of his answer. She couldn't bear to think of her wonderful, kind, generous husband as the type of man who would kill in cold blood or terrorize families. She had always supported his passion for a free Ireland, but she didn't really know to what lengths he was willing to go to make it happen.

_Not murder_, she told herself, willing it to be true. Let it be assault, or conspiracy against the crown. _Let it be something I can forgive. _

**xxx**

Tom's arrival in Yorkshire coincided with the rain. Unwilling to risk being spotted on the train, he had hitched a ride to Ripon on the back of a grocery delivery truck. Crouched in the frigidly cold cargo hold with the cases of canned beans and sacks of potatoes, Tom had been jostled, bounced, and tossed about for over a hundred miles of rough country road. As he finally climbed out of the truck in Ripon, a great fork of lightning had slashed across the sky. In moments he was drenched to the skin.

"Have ye got a way to get where yer going?" the driver asked him as he came around the back to start unloading his cargo.

"I'll walk from here," he replied, jamming his hat lower over his face. "Thank you for the ride."

The man grunted in response, already preoccupied with a heavy carton of onions.

Tom set off in the direction of Downton, deciding to cut through the forest to shorten the journey. It was a miserable walk, stumbling over sticks and rocks in the dark, rain streaming down his face. He could not stop thinking about Sybil back in Dublin, wondering where she had gone after leaving the flat. They had put aside an envelope of money in case of emergencies. Hopefully she had remembered to grab it from underneath the mattress.

_She's all right_, Tom told himself. Any other outcome was simply unimaginable; his mind rejected it, unable to bear thinking about it.

What would he tell her family? It would have to be the truth, of course. They would all know soon enough, once reports of the Drumgoole's misfortune reached the newspapers. Lord Grantham would be apoplectic with rage. Thinking of her family only magnified Tom's shame; he had proved all their worst fears to be true, after all. Sybil had married him despite their objections, and now she was pregnant and alone in another country, on the run from the police as the wife of a criminal. Even Tom, skulking in the bushes and covered in mud, with barely a shilling left in his pocket, could admit that no family would want this for their beloved daughter.

He walked for nearly an hour before finally reaching the gates of Downton Abbey. The grounds were deserted, though the dining room windows still glowed brightly in the darkness. Tom trudged through the puddles towards the house as if walking towards his execution. He knew his appearance would give them a fright: his shirt had torn on a patch of brambles, his shoes were leaking, and dirt streaked his trousers. But there was nothing more to be done; he had created this mess and now he would have to face it.

Standing on the front steps, Tom reached up and knocked.

**xxx**

Tom came downstairs to find the family convened in the library, still in their dinner clothes. Edith and Cora had arranged themselves on the sofa across from Mary and Matthew, while the Dowager Countess was propped up in an armchair by her silver handled cane. Lord Grantham paced by the fireplace, his agitation radiating off of him like a heat wave. All eyes were on Tom as he entered the room, wearing an oversized suit and feeling like a cad.

"Tom!" Lord Grantham boomed, his brows drawn down in an expression of displeasure. "What in God's name is going on? We had the most cryptic telephone call from Sybil –"

"Sybil called?" Tom's heart leapt frantically in his chest. "Tell me, what did she say?"

"Just that she had left the flat and would be here shortly," Edith piped in, her eyes as round as dinner plates. "She said that nobody had tried to stop her."

"Oh, thank God." Tom hadn't realized how deep his fear truly ran until it was suddenly gone. It was like there had been a vise around his chest, and now that it had been taken away, he could finally breathe properly again.

"Tom, what's going on?" Cora asked anxiously. "Where's Sybil?"

"I can explain everything." Tom took a deep breath. "But I think Sybil is all right. She should be here tomorrow."

"You _think_," Lord Grantham repeated in disbelief.

Tom had no reply. He stared down at his hands.

"Robert, get the man a chair," the Dowager broke in, her thin eyebrows raised. "There's no use interrogating him like a naughty school boy. Give him a moment to collect himself."

"Thank you," Tom nodded as Matthew jumped up to get him a chair. Lord Grantham had turned away, bracing his hands against the mantle in his restrained fury.

"Now, start from the beginning," Mary prodded, once Matthew had returned to the sofa.

Tom swallowed; his throat felt like sandpaper. "There was an attack on Drumgoole Castle, by the IRA. They turned everyone out of the castle. Lord and Lady Drumgoole, their son, and all their servants…"

**xxx**

Alone again in Sybil's childhood bedroom, Tom supposed he should be grateful that things hadn't gone worse. Lord Grantham hadn't turned him out, and Cora had even convinced him to go to London in the morning on Tom's behalf. Perhaps this mess could still be cleaned up.

_Grantham must be smiling in his sleep tonight_, Tom thought sourly as he climbed into bed. He had, after all, been proved right. Tom had failed as a husband, a father, and a provider. He didn't think Robert was an evil man, but he was certainly a self-righteous one. Robert wouldn't take pleasure in Sybil's misery, but seeing Tom brought low in her eyes would probably feel like victory.

Seeing their looks of horror as he described the scene at Drumgoole Castle had affected Tom more than he had thought it would. It had been easy to fool himself into thinking their actions weren't so bad when surrounded by his co-conspirators. They had egged each other, giving each other permission to air out their most radical beliefs, meeting them with approval and validation. There had been no voice of dissent in their tight-knit group. It had seemed obvious at the time: what was one destroyed castle, when compared to the decades of Irish oppression?

But now, as he laid his crimes bare to Sybil's family and watched the anger, fear, and sorrow flit across their faces, he knew he had done wrong. And, god, how he regretted it, though he would never admit that to Robert.

How would Sybil react when she learned of the terrible thing he had done? She was an innocent, who believed in the fundamental goodness of man. She believed in the fundamental goodness of _Tom_. How would she feel when she found out he was not who she thought he was?

Tom had never been who she thought he was. The Tom of Sybil's imagination was strong and brave, kind and compassionate. An honourable man, a _worthy_ man. But Tom had always known the truth, that he was fallible and weak in so many ways. It was _Sybil_ that was strong and brave, kind and compassionate, worthy beyond compare. She had tried to pull him up to her level, but he had stumbled and now they had lost everything. How could she look at him the same way, knowing what he had done?

Sybil believed in him, _loved_ him, in a way nobody else ever had. He didn't think he could bear to lose her love.

Tom rolled over in bed, staring at the empty place where she should have been. They hadn't spent a single night apart since their wedding. Tom didn't know how he could possibly fall asleep without her feet pressed against his shins, her hair streaming across his pillow, her fingers brushing against his arm. He buried his face into the blankets, hoping there was still a hint of her scent trapped between the sheets.

But all he could smell was laundry soap.

**xxx**

Sybil's crossing had been uneventful. The morning ferry had been crowded and noisy; nobody had paid her a moment's glance, sitting quietly on the last bench as she stared contemplatively out at the grey water. In Liverpool, she caught the train to Downton, no longer worried about getting caught. As she had watched the familiar Yorkshire scenery flash by, her heart had begun to palpitate, as if sensing Tom's presence growing nearer.

She was desperate to see her husband. She was terrified to see her husband. She had left their home on faith, praying that he was worthy of it. If someone had asked her if she trusted Tom a week ago, she would have answered with an unequivocal and immediate _yes_. But after a night spent tossing and turning, wondering what he had done, she wasn't sure what she thought anymore.

The cab jerked to a stop in front of Downton Abbey and the driver jumped out to help her out of the backseat. The house was quiet and still, giving away no signs of the life that bustled on behind its thick stone walls. Sybil paid the driver with the last of the money Tom had left for her, crumpling the empty envelope into her pocket.

Once the car was gone, Sybil stood alone in front of her childhood home. The familiar surroundings were soothing on her frayed nerves. She had once thought Downton was the most beautiful place on earth, but that was before she had seen the rugged Irish coastline and rolling emerald countryside. Still, she took strength from the house. Nothing all that bad could happen at Downton.

Sybil tried the front entrance, expecting it to be locked. To her surprise, the heavy wooden door swung open. She stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind her. The main hall was empty, but drenched in warm sunlight that beckoned her forward. It smelled like lunch had just been served in the dining room beyond; the faint sound of cutlery clicking against porcelain was just barely audible.

There was the sudden thumping of hurried footsteps on the wooden floor, and then suddenly Tom burst into the hall, his hand clutching at his chest as their eyes met.

"Oh, thank god," he rasped, his face crumpling as he ran towards her, arms outstretched.

All of Sybil's misgivings faded away as she fell into his arms, clutching him fiercely against her. Tom buried his face into her hair, crushing her in his embrace. He reached up to cup her face, pulling her in for a searing kiss. Sybil could taste his fear and desperation, and the sweetness of reunion. A small sob bubbled up from between her lips and pulling back, she saw his own eyes swimming with tears.

"I'm so sorry," he choked out, his fingers running over her cheeks, her hair, her lips.

"Shh," she murmured, stroking his hair and sucking in a ragged breath. "It's all right."

And for the moment, it really _was_ all right. Soon she would need to ask him what had happened, but for now, it was enough to just hold him close.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> _Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a review. I will try to get the next chapter up in the next couple weeks!_


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **_This chapter takes place during episode 3x04. I hope you enjoy it!_

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><p>The moment they were alone in her bedroom, Tom reached for Sybil, his mouth landing roughly against hers. He kissed her urgently, his hands winding in her hair and clutching at her backside to secure her body to his. He wanted to inhale her, to swallow her whole, just so they would never have to be apart again. Her lips moved with his, matching his frantic pace. She whimpered softly as he pulled away, pressing wet kisses to any part of her he could reach: her temple, her nose, her cheeks, her throat.<p>

"I've been so afraid," he admitted, his voice raw. He rested his forehead against hers, not willing to lose contact.

Sybil reached up to stroke his hair, fingers trailing down his cheek. He leaned into her touch, taking comfort from the gesture, though he knew he didn't deserve it. Her eyes were still wet, her dark lashes clumped together from her tears. Tom couldn't stand to see her cry. He couldn't stand knowing he had _made_ her cry.

More than her tears were the dark shadows under her eyes, her rumpled clothing, and the smell of the sea that lingered on her hair. Her protruding belly, squished snuggly between them, was another reminder of what he had risked. Sybil shouldn't have been traveling at all in her condition; she was practically swaying from exhaustion.

Tom felt his eyes fill with tears again, his guilt and shame washing over him like a tidal wave.

"Shh, don't be afraid," Sybil said soothingly, smoothing her hand over his furrowed brow. "We're together now. Everything will be all right."

Tom closed his eyes, unable to look at her, not when she was gazing up at him with such love and devotion.

"Don't you want to know what I did?"

Sybil dropped her hand from his cheek. "Of course I do. I've thought of barely anything else since I left the flat." She turned her face away, untangling herself from him and wandering over to look out the window. Tom felt an immediate sense of loss when her touch was gone, like a cold draft had blown in.

She stood with her back to him, gazing down at the lawn below. "Go on, then. Tell me."

Tom swallowed heavily. "The IRA burnt down Drumgoole Castle last night."

"Was anybody hurt?"

"I don't think so. But I left before the fire brigade went inside to check."

She hesitated, her head bowed, before finally asking, "And the police think you were involved?"

"The other men will have given them my name by now."

Sybil nodded, but didn't move from her spot by the window. Tom could barely breathe through his tightly clenched jaw. He wished he could see her face. He wanted to stride across the room and force her to look at him, just to put him out of his misery. If this was the moment where he lost her love, he wanted to get it over with, like the clean slice of a guillotine.

But Tom couldn't bring himself to go to her. In truth, if this _was_ the end, he would do anything to prolong the moment, just to put off hearing her say those words.

At last Sybil turned around, her grey eyes serious. "Well, I suppose it could have been worse."

Tom blinked. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Sybil smiled ruefully, walking over to his side. "I've been imagining terrible things. Standing by while the IRA burns down a house is really not so bad in comparison."

"You wouldn't be saying so if you had seen the look on Lady Drumgoole's face," Tom said, staring down at her in confusion. "Aren't you angry with me?"

Sybil slowly shook her head. "Maybe I should be…but it wouldn't be very fair, would it? I knew about your politics long before I married you. I can't very well be mad at you for it now."

"You _can_ be mad, and you should be." Tom reached for her hands, squeezing them tightly between his own. "At the very least for leaving without you."

"I told you to go without me, didn't I?" Sybil reminded him gently, her eyes soft. "I can hardly hold that against you."

"But I did a terrible thing!" he exclaimed incredulously.

Sybil bit her lip. "Well," she said slowly. "I can't say I approve of burning down a family's home. But you told me once that hard sacrifices must be made for a future worth having. Even if I don't agree with the IRA's methods…I suppose they have their reasons…"

"Why are you making excuses for me?" Tom demanded.

Sybil frowned. "Don't you _want_ me to make excuses for you?"

Tom couldn't speak, couldn't look at her. He turned his face away, teeth clenched to prevent himself from expressing his frustration. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders, until his Sybil came back. Though Tom wanted her forgiveness more desperately than he wanted his next breath, this easy acceptance felt wrong somehow. He didn't deserve to be defended. Did she really love him so much that she would abandon all her notions of right and wrong? Tom didn't want that for her. He never wanted her to lose her idealism, her innocence, not even for his sake.

Sybil grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Look at me," she said fiercely. "I'm your wife, Tom. Don't ask me to give up on you now, not after everything we've been through." Her eyes were like steel. "I won't abandon you, no matter what."

His anger faded as he stared down at her beautiful face, as familiar to him as his own. Even if it was wrong, her sheer determination to love him shook him to the core. Tom simply could not do without it; her love had become as necessary as air and water. It was selfish and petty, but he thanked God for her moral lapse, just so he didn't have to.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, caressing her face. "I'm _so_ sorry."

"I know you are," she murmured, tipping her head up to meet his lips in a tender kiss.

**xxx**

There was nothing to do but wait for Lord Grantham to return. Sybil tried to nap, but she couldn't fall asleep with Tom restlessly pacing the room. She could tell from the way his brow was furrowed low over his stormy eyes that he was anxious, endlessly replaying the conversation with her mother and her sisters over and over in his head. Sybil rolled awkwardly onto her side to watch him, feeling like a beached whale.

He was standing by her dressing table, caught up in his own dark thoughts as he mindlessly ran his fingers over the bottles of perfume and little boxes of jewelry. Sybil wanted to stroke his cheek and erase all the pain, but she knew it was beyond her power to heal. Cora's insistence that they stay at Downton Abbey probably seemed like a similar fate to prison in his eyes.

"Tom," Sybil called out softly. His head snapped up to meet her gaze, anguish etched into the lines of his face. "Come lay down with me."

"I'm not tired," he protested wearily, though he crossed the room to join her on the bed anyway. The mattress sank under his weight as he sat down to remove his shoes, kicking them to the end of the bed where his jacket had been tossed aside.

She wiggled over to his side, where he lay on his back with his arms behind his head. Sybil placed her small hand on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the muted thumping of his heart.

"I know you're upset," she said quietly. "But we mustn't lose hope yet. Perhaps Papa can persuade them not to come after us."

Tom frowned, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I don't want our child to be born here."

Sybil bit her lip, feelings of tenderness and frustration at war within her. She couldn't stand to see Tom hurting. She knew how he felt at Downton: like a circus freak on parade, endlessly ridiculed and scorned by a jeering crowd. It made him bitter and defensive, not at all like the confident and cheerful man he was in Dublin. It hurt Sybil's heart to watch him struggle; though, in her opinion, he was fighting against an opponent that was in his head. Her family might like to poke and prod, but they weren't cruel people. In fact, their acceptance of Tom and Sybil's marriage had far surpassed her expectations.

"Let's just wait and see what Papa has to say," Sybil repeated, moving closer to rub her nose against Tom's cheek.

He ignored her nuzzling. "I mean it, Sybil. I want our child to be Irish."

A sudden flare of anger shot through her. "Then perhaps you never should have gotten involved with the IRA."

There was no need to say anything more. It passed between them unspoken: _And then we'd be back in our flat right now, with the wireless on and a fire going in the hearth and one of my terrible cabbage pies in the oven. You'd be reading me the headlines from your paper while I attempt to mend a pair of socks, and we'd laugh at my sloppy needlework. We were so, so happy, until you went and ruined it. _

Tom stiffened at her silent accusation, turning his face away from her on their shared pillow.

Sybil immediately regretted her words. She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at his tired, pale face. He stared up at her, his sadness and hurt heavy in his tired eyes. Sybil pressed her warm hand against his cheek, wishing she could take back the pain she had caused him.

"I'm sorry, Tom."

"Why? It's true, isn't it?" he sighed.

"Still, I am sorry." Sybil bit her lip. "Don't be defeatist yet. We don't know what the home secretary will say. Perhaps we can be on a boat back to Dublin by tomorrow morning."

Tom smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He pushed her short hair behind her ears, letting his large hands linger on her exposed neck. "That's what I love about you. Always the optimist." He gently pulled her down to lie on his chest, encircling her in his arms. "Go to sleep, darling. When your father returns, he'll have good news for us."

Sybil rested her head on Tom's breastbone, letting herself be reassured, though she knew he didn't believe a word he had said.

**xxx**

Tom had been right. Lord Grantham had not come bearing good news. In fact, he had come with news of Tom's punishment, a fate only narrowly better than a prison sentence: Tom could never again return to Ireland.

Ireland. His _home_. The thought that he would never again walk the streets of Dublin, never again lay eyes on the craggy coastline from the ferry deck, never again return to their small, cosy flat above the baker's shop…it was unthinkable, incomprehensible. Tom had waited for so long to return to Ireland, with Sybil at his side. The short time they had spent there had been the happiest of his life. To lose Ireland now was a cruel twist of fate. He simply could not imagine never returning home again. Was he to spend the rest of his life as a foreigner in a foreign land?

Tom ate his dinner in silence, tuning out the conversation around him. A fierce anger raged within him, a poisonous cocktail of bitterness, blame, and resentment. Each terse glance and small gesture from his in-laws only fueled the flame. How could they talk and laugh with such gaiety, when his world had just crumbled around him? How could they go on so easily, when he could _never go home again_?

Sybil sat quietly across the table, her head lowered as she cut her chicken into small, bite-sized portions. Her expression was blank, the carefully cultivated look that aristocrats used when trying to hide their emotions. Tom hated that look, hated to see it on her face. He had tried to grab her hand when they had left the library for dinner, but she had ducked away, pretending she hadn't noticed him reaching for her. Her rejection had stung him deeply, but now, as she avoided his gaze from across the room, he felt his pain morph into anger. How could she turn away from him now, when he had just lost everything?

Once they were done eating, the ladies left the room for tea in the lounge. Tom watched Sybil leave with a sour taste in his mouth, sullenly accepting the cigar Lord Grantham offered him. The last thing he felt like doing was sitting around smoking with an Earl, the very embodiment of the system that had just stolen his life away. He wanted to be alone, to cry and kick something and let out the stream of ugly words that was perched on the tip of his tongue.

But Tom knew he would regret it tomorrow if he behaved badly towards Lord Grantham. Whether or not Tom liked the man, he was still Sybil's father. Sybil had enough reasons to be angry with him already; his chest ached when he thought of how she had snatched her hand away from his when she had learned the full extent of his crimes. She had looked at him as if he was a stranger. Tom had felt, in that moment, what he had been waiting for: the slight but perceptible shift between them, as Sybil learned of who he really was. He had lost something in her eyes; his flaws had been revealed, and she wasn't sure she liked what she saw.

Tom slouched in his seat, shoulders hunched as he smoked his cigar in silence. That was the problem with loving someone so deeply, he thought bitterly. They can raise you up, but they can also push you down. Before this moment, Sybil had always made him feel larger than life. Now, he felt as small as a bug squished on the motorcar windshield.

**xxx**

In the lounge, Sybil drank her tea quietly, barely looking up from the cup and saucer balanced on her knee. Her mind was churning as it tried to process the sudden ending of life as she had known it. Their cosy flat, the neighborhood she had grown to love, Tom's job at the paper– it was all gone. They would never again sit by the fireplace in their Dublin home, reading the newspaper and darning socks and waiting as a soggy cabbage pie baked in the oven.

Sybil could live with the loss of their life in Dublin. At least they were still together, still free. She could tolerate the grief and anxiety of losing her home, the terrible aching for her adopted country and the happiness she had known there. The future she had pictured for their family was not to be; a blank emptiness lay before her, a space that she and Tom would need to fill with new hopes and goals and dreams.

What Sybil could not live with was the incomprehensible details of Tom's involvement with organized crime. It was simply too much. _How_ could he? Standing by while the IRA burned down a castle was one thing; however, methodically making plans to destroy a family's home, and endangering women and children in the process, was quite another. _He must have a good explanation_, Sybil told herself in a weak attempt to calm her nerves.

"Sybil, darling?" Cora's soft voice broke her reverie. Her mother's brow was creased in concern, her small mouth pursed. "You're so quiet. Are you all right?"

"She's just discovered that her husband is a criminal, Mama," Mary drawled, rolling her dark eyes toward the ceiling. "I hardly think that calls for a celebratory mood."

Sybil stared down into her teacup, fixating on the dark leaves stuck to the bottom without really seeing them. Her eyes burned, threatening tears, but she couldn't let herself cry in front of her family. Her pride would not let her. She could never admit to them how upset she truly was about Tom's actions; she didn't want them to think they had been right after all to try and discourage their marriage.

"Why do you always have to be so horrible?" Edith snapped at Mary, shaking her head. "Can't you see she's upset? Sybil, I'm so sorry."

Sybil drew in a deep breath, leaning forward to set her cup down on the coffee table. "No, no, it's quite all right. I am a little shaken, but…once I talk to Tom, I'm sure I'll understand why he did it."

The women stared at Sybil in silence, their expressions carefully blank. Cora shared a glance with the Dowager, loaded with unspoken words, before she quickly busied herself pouring another cup of tea. Edith played with her necklace, twisting it round and round her finger. Finally, Mary raised her eyebrows, a small smile forming on her lips.

"My, my," she murmured. "You really do love him."

"I do," Sybil replied with a frown. "Though I'm not sure what you're implying."

Mary sighed. "Well, darling, you _do_ have a history of overlooking Tom's bad behaviour."

The Dowager let out a small sniff, turning her sharp bird-like eyes onto her eldest granddaughter. "Mary, perhaps you might understand that sometimes we must overlook things for the people we love."

Mary looked away, silenced by her grandmother's pointed remark.

The Dowager stood, using her silver-handled cane to push herself out of her chair. "Now, I must be going. Carson, if you would please have the car brought round."

Sybil rose slowly from the sofa, her hands clasped over her belly. Was Mary right? Thinking back, she supposed there was some credibility to Mary's words. The truth was that Sybil could not stand to stay mad at Tom for very long; being apart from him, emotionally or physically, was simply too uncomfortable, too intolerable. It was easier to make excuses for his behavior and move on.

But if she was honest with herself, this time she could not dismiss the nagging sensation that something was very, very wrong. It was not Tom's involvement with the IRA that was truly upsetting her; it was the bleak truth that lay beneath. It was the fact that Tom, in the pursuit of a free Ireland, had abandoned the moral principles she had believed they shared. It was that Tom had been willing to risk their lives, and the well-being of their unborn child, for his politics. It was that Tom's actions had suddenly forced her to question everything she had been so sure of.

_I don't recognize this man,_ Sybil thought as she climbed the stairs toward their bedroom, her blood suddenly running cold. She had believed that Tom would always put the safety and security of their family above all else. But now that his loyalty had been tested, it was revealed he had other priorities. And _that_ betrayal, Sybil was not sure she could forgive.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>_I thought very carefully about how Sybil would react to the news of Tom's involvement with the IRA, and this is what I came up with. I think, when reflecting on the dynamic between Sybil and Tom over the course of their relationship, this chapter is a true reflection of the characters in canon with the show. I suspect some of you might take issue with Sybil's reaction – in the vein of "she's a strong, independent woman with a backbone who would never let him get away with it" – but my logic is that, if you review other instances on the show where Tom has behaved in a less than desirable way, she DOES always let him get away with it. And personally, I don't think loving her husband despite his actions makes her any less of a strong, independent woman. _

_Anyway, feel free to disagree and let me know by leaving a review! I'd love to hear what you think. _


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